To many,
home is a building.
Encircled by
four walls
made of concrete--
the building gets bigger,
and the walls grow thicker,
as more wealth heaped.
To some,
home is not a place
but rather,
a person.
Wrapped in
warm arms,
their heart at ease--
to them,
home is where
the heart is.
To very few,
home is nowhere
to be found.
They walk the earth,
they sail the sea,
they fly through
the clouds--
but home is
nowhere in sight.
They may own a house,
tightly embraced by ones they love,
yet they are home-less.
They always try
to make themselves
feel at home--
they did,
But there will come a time
when they may
give up altogether,
believing:
Here is not home,
here, I don't belong.
HBY,
14 June 2018,
8.06am;
The Eve of Eid.
Edited:
18 June 2018,
9.27am.
YOU ARE READING
Overflowing
PoetryThis is a collection of poetry I have written throughout the years, whenever my head is overflowing with thoughts and my heart with emotions.
